Stories No. 17 – Mick Harris

The body forgets how to move
But it never forgets how cold fingers feel
on sweaty skin

Lotioned and
manicured and
carefully shaped

Moving
entitled and
Blind
toward the center

How we wish we could rear back
Raise heavy claws to the sky
And whip tails
Crackling like neurons
Into their eyes

How we wish we could dig deep with little paws
Curl under Formica and smoke-scarred plastic
Baring white teeth

How we wish we could
Gather these women, precious and trembling
Dewy jewels
Onto our backs
And trundle steady and baked-clay brown
Into the desert

Mick Harris is a writer and educator living in the SF Bay Area. Their work is available or forthcoming in Pink Litter, Fruitapulp, Deep Water Literary and in the Up, Do anthology from Spider Road Press. They review local readings for LitSeen/The Rumpus. They share poetry at http://positivelysocialsix.wordpress.com.